Afterthought

Suddenly aware that he might at any moment glance down at her waist and thereby notice the steely tip of the long-handled knife that was peeking out of her shoulder bag, not truly obtrusive, but visible enough nonetheless, with its dark, coagulated blood and a few long strands of blond hair clinging stubbornly to the blade, she deftly angled her lithe body so that the sheriff’s green eyes bore rather unmistakably into the depths of her cleavage, swaying and full of promise, beneath the silky crimson blouse she had tossed on in the morning as a now greatly appreciated afterthought.

From Guest Contributor Jody Hart Lehrer

Consequences

My fate had been decided and I’m not sorry. The hunger in the pit of my stomach was more important than the consequences. When I barreled my fist into the man’s face and he fell to the ground motionless, I took the bread with my sore, bloody knuckles and ran. Within a day, the sheriff apprehended me.

I’m trapped in a cold, dank, cage, with crawling rats as my friends. I’ve heard other prisoners declaring innocence and then silence.

The sheriff led me outside to a chanting crowd, hands tied tightly behind me, to the noose that awaits my neck.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

Stalemate

Zach’s eyes followed the dirt path as it blended into the trees. Three couples, the latest newlyweds, disappeared in the last month while strolling the serpentine lane. The townspeople wanted something done, and they expected Zach to do it. He was the sheriff, after all.

Zach glanced from side to side, saw faces—some showing fear, others glaring—waiting less patiently with every second that passed.

He rocked from side to side, his palms sweaty, hoping those standing with him would get bored or hungry and leave. The one thing he knew was he wouldn’t be the first to move.

From Guest Contributor Jim Harrington

The Sheriff From Little Spring

The sheriff from Little Spring, Wyoming had a reputation for tenaciously hunting any outlaw who passed through his town. Lawbreakers were so rare, in fact, that he had taken to bounty hunting in the neighboring counties. Whenever a bank robber or horse thief saw his white ten-gallon in the distance, they fled immediately. But to no avail. The sheriff from Little Spring never failed once he caught the scent.

The truth was, if he had had his druthers, the sheriff would have been an outlaw himself. His fanaticism was born more out of a sense of jealousy than of justice.

Nothing More Than Coincidence

The argument over the next-door cemetery was one of those that never ended, though nobody in the Miller family took it particularly seriously. None of them were actually frightened.

But after the third Miller boy died of an unusual accident on his 18th birthday, the rest of the Millers began to wonder. No family could be that unlucky, right?

It was Mr. Bodewin, the retired Sheriff, who told them they didn't live on the edge of the cemetery, but smack dab in the middle. But he maintained the boys' deaths were an accident still. Mr. Bodewin didn't believe in hauntings.

The Hour Before Sunset

Dax Morgan policed the town of Ashland with a harsh tongue and pair of Colt revolvers. He tolerated no dissent, even from his own sons. The town tolerated him in return, as long as peace was maintained.

Gil Thompson hated the sheriff more than most. Dax’d been responsible for his ranch being seized by the government, using technicalities and subterfuge to cheat him of his birthright.

Each wanted the other dead. They finally faced off on a lonely dusty road in the hour before sunset.

As Gil rode away, a rivulet of blood soaked into the thirsty clay behind him.